


two of a kind

by princessofmind



Category: Corpse Party (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dirty Talk, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-22
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-15 11:45:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5784157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessofmind/pseuds/princessofmind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Gentleman over there said you should be drinking something a little better than dirty water,” the bartender grunted, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to where a casually-dressed man was leaning against the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid cradled in his long fingers.  “Said he’d cover it.”</p><p>Or, in which 25 year-old salaryman Morishige Sakutaro rather unexpectedly gets picked up by someone at a bar, and that someone just so happens to have similar tastes as him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two of a kind

Morishige Sakutaro was a man of habit. Perhaps that made him boring, but he liked everything being a certain way. He didn’t often stray from his usual path back to his apartment once he was done working for the day, and only did so at the behest of his co-workers or when Mayu ended up on his end of town. Her shop kept her busy, but sometimes she visited potential clients near his office building, and they would meet for dinner or to share a few drinks before she caught the last train back to the other side of the city.

Today, for some reason, there was a restlessness in his bones. If he went back to his apartment, empty and largely bare for all that he’d inhabited it for three years, he’d end up pacing the floor between his living room and bed, chewing his lip and picking idly at his cuticles until they bled. Not a very productive use of his time.

About half-way between his building and his office was a bar, a small, dimly lit thing that he usually only went with his male co-workers (it wasn’t the kind of establishment Mayu would be fond of; she liked atmosphere, pleasing decor, and drinks with pretty names and even prettier colors). It seemed like a good place to kill a bit of time, so he went, shoulders hunched in his coat and his hands numb and cold in his pockets.

As soon as he stepped through the door, he shivered, as if trying to shake the chill of the wind from his body. It wasn’t terribly crowded, and he had no trouble securing a seat at the bar. The place was warm, but he was thin, almost malnourished, so the coat stayed on as he ordered a bourbon, whatever was cheapest.

Removing his glasses to wipe the fog brought on by the sudden warmth of the room away, he’d barely settled the frames on his face again before his drink was set before him. It took only a mouthful for him to realize that it wasn’t the low-quality swill he’d ordered, but something rich, with a heavy taste and full body that spilled across his tongue.

Expensive stuff.

“Pardon me,” he said, catching the bartender’s attention. “This is...it’s not what I ordered.”

“Gentleman over there said you should be drinking something a little better than dirty water,” the other man grunted, jerking his thumb over his shoulder to where a casually-dressed man was leaning against the bar, a tumbler of amber liquid cradled in his long fingers. “Said he’d cover it.”

Morishige’s eyes narrowed as he took in the stranger, because he was used to people buying drinks for Mayu, not him. The stranger didn’t seem bothered by the studious gaze being directed his way; if anything, he seemed to bask in it, the corners of his mouth twitching up in what appeared to be a smirk. He was what most people would consider attractive, his hair artfully messy in a way that looked effortless, skin smooth and eyes bright.

But there was something in his lidded gaze that made Morishige give him a second look, a kind of blackness lurking in the depths of his grey eyes. It didn’t make him flinch away, however; if anything, it made him curious. When he didn’t flinch or look away, the man stood from his slouched position and walked over, sliding into the seat next to him with ease.

“I appreciate the drink,” Morishige said, taking another sip from his glass. “But I’m not so sure I appreciate the implication that I have bad taste.”

The man chuckled, and it was a low sound that went straight to the lowest parts of his stomach. “I’m sure you have fine taste, but I can recognize that you’re on a budget. Drinking alone is no fun, so allow me to indulge myself in a bit of conversation and treat you to something nicer than you want to spend money on in return.”

Morishige frowned, but found he couldn’t complain. Liquor wasn’t something he fancied spending money on, but he couldn’t deny that what he’d been given was good. Besides, the man was pretty to look at, and his voice was rich like caramel. Listening to him was a fair trade.

“Very well,” he sighed, extending his hand. “Let’s get introductions out of the way. I’m Morishige Sakutaro.”

“Kizami Yuuya,” the stranger said, his smile growing as he took Morishige’s hand. His grasp was firm, and lingered a bit too long to be casual. There were callouses on his palms, skin much warmer than Morishige’s, and he found that he didn’t mind the continued contact. “I take it you’re an office worker?”

“Unfortunately,” Morishige answered, his eyebrows pinching. “But it pays the bills, so I suppose I can’t complain. What else would someone with great academic acclaim but no particular talent end up doing?”

“How uncharacteristically honest,” Kizami said, but his tone of voice didn’t imply displeasure at his rude, rather blunt answer. “It’s refreshing.”

“I’m glad I didn’t offend you.” His hand still tingled from where the other man had touched him.

“Quite the contrary,” he murmured, and Morishige was ashamed to feel his cheeks flush.

“I think the rules of polite conversation would dictate that you offer your occupation in return,” Morishige pointed out, making Kizami chuckle again. It was such a pretty sound, he could only wish to continue drawing it from his lips.

“I’m a writer,” he said, looking about as pleased with his job as Morishige was with his. “True crime and murder mysteries, mostly.”

“Not anything I would have read, then,” Morishige said, sounding a bit regretful. “I mostly read plays or historical fiction.”

“I use a pen name anyways,” Kizami replied with a shrug. “I like to keep my work life and personal life separate.”

“I feel honored, then, to be given so much information so freely.”

The other man smiled, his eyes hooded and his posture almost lazy as he twisted the mostly empty glass between his fingers. “I’d hoped to entice you,” he said. “You caught my attention as soon as you walked through the door.”

“Me?” Morishige said, clearly taken aback. “I can’t even begin to imagine why.”

Kizami leaned forward, so close that his lips almost brushed Morishige’s ear. “You look vulnerable. Easy,” he murmured. “Like a little fawn standing oblivious in the middle of a clearing.”

This is the point where most people would leave, disgusted or afraid or a combination of both. But Morishige was twenty-five, and had spent much of his life trying to come to terms with his...abnormal sexuality. For the most part, he didn’t feel much attraction to people; at least, not without the threat of danger, of pain, of humiliation. When he would touch himself, he would dig his fingernails into his thighs until they bled, leaving red crescents on his pale skin that would linger for days. The few times he’d been intimate with another person, he hadn’t been able to come save for one occasion, when the girl had raked her long, elegantly painted nails down his back in the peak of her pleasure. She’d apologized profusely after, but the claw marks that stood out lividly in the stark light of his bathroom marked it as the most successful encounter he’d had.

There were others like him, he knew, who enjoyed the flare of pain to give contrast to the pleasure, and others who enjoyed giving it. But there was so much trouble involved, going certain places or joining certain message boards and so on and so forth. He didn’t care enough, and the absence of sex wasn’t really one he felt keenly. Life was an ordinary thing for him, and he didn’t dress in leather or frequent BDSM clubs; he was a salaryman, and the whole thing just seemed beneath him.

But in this ordinary encounter with a seemingly ordinary man, something was being offered to him that made lightning sing through his veins. Kizami didn’t seem bothered by the lack of reply (perhaps he was used to shock being the initial reaction to the people he propositioned), but eventually, Morishige seemed to get his bearings.

“Would that make you a wolf, or perhaps a hunter?” he replied. “Do you plot, or are you more the type to fall prey to your base instincts?”

Kizami laughed, a fuller sound than his mild chuckles, and his teeth pressed against Morishige’s ear. “Can I be both?” His hand fell away from his drink, falling to Morishige’s thigh, and he absently kneaded the muscles there as he spoke.

Morishige shuddered, fingers tightening on his glass. “Am I misinterpreting your intentions, or are you implying that you want to fuck me?”

The fingers against his thigh turned savage, digging in hard enough to bruise, and Morishige jerked forward, almost smacking his chest into the bar. “ _Just_ fuck you? Oh, no. That would be a waste.” His tongue was cold against his ear, and he could smell the alcohol on his breath. “I want to see you bleed.”

A quivering breath left Morishige’s throat, and he downed the rest of his drink in one go, ignoring the way it burned on the way down. Kizami clearly took this as acceptance (which it was), and stepped away. “I’ll get us a cab,” he said, grabbing a coat from one of the pegs by the door before disappearing.

The ride to Kizami’s apartment was a blur, to the point where it hardly seemed real. The other man didn’t touch him, didn’t so much as speak to him, for the entire ride. He looked out the window instead, chin cradled in his hand, as the lights flickered by and illuminated his face, casting harsh shadows before falling completely to black. It was captivating, and again, he didn’t seem to care that he was being watched so rapturously.

“How did you know?” Morishige asked when they were on the sidewalk, making their way inside the tall, nondescript building that seemed to blend into their surroundings. It was terribly ordinary.

“I didn’t,” Kizami answered. “I’d hoped, but even if I scared you off, it’d still give me something to jerk off to later. Fear would look pretty on you.”

Even though he was being offered something much better, the thought of the handsome man lying alone in his bed, fingers wrapped around his length as he thought of Morishige’s face, eyes wide with fear as the color drained from his cheeks, made his stomach clench pleasantly. This didn’t escape the watchful eye of his companion, and Kizami smirked.

“You’re awfully vain, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely not,” Morishige snapped. “Quite the opposite.”

“Insulting yourself isn’t going to make me like you any more,” Kizami said, leading them into an elevator and selecting a floor near the top of the building. “Modesty is good and all, but I can’t stand people who fish for compliments.”

“I’m not fishing either,” Morishige said, exasperated. “I’m ambivalent towards myself at best, and I’d like if you’d stop making assumptions about me.”

Kizami just laughed at him, giving him a gentle push to indicate that they’d reached their destination. The apartment they were heading to was the first on the left, right by the elevator, and a sort of sick thrill went through Morishige when the other locked the apartment door behind them, sliding the deadbolt and chain into place with a sense of finality.

“Take your clothes off,” he said, not moving to turn on the lights. The only source of illumination was the moon, filtering dully through the thin curtains that kept them shielded from the rest of the world.

Wordlessly, Morishige shed his coat, folding it crisply and setting it aside before removing his suit, meticulously putting each piece on top of the coat until it formed a neatly pile and he was bare.

“You look sick,” Kizami said, almost distantly, and Morishige couldn’t even deny the fact. Being ill for most of his childhood had certainly left an impact on his body; his ribs stuck out, and he was quite thin, leaving his knees knobby and each bump of his spine clearly visible.

“Well, you’re the one who picked me, so I wonder what that says about your personal tastes,” Morishige said, not feeling bothered by his undressed state.

Kizami approached him, and any warmth that had once colored his face was gone. His gaze was cold, almost clinical as he surveyed Morishige’s body, lips pressed tight together to form a colorless line. “It means you bruise like a delicate fruit,” he said, and sure enough, the place where he’d dug his fingers into his leg at the bar was already purple against the otherwise pale white of his skin. “I got ahead of myself. It would look better if I hadn’t already fucked up.”

“That’s your own fault,” Morishige said, and Kizami backhanded him so hard his glasses fell off.

“Shit,” he groused, running his fingers through his already mussed hair as Morishige tried to clear the ringing his head. “You really work me up, you know? Talking like you’re better than me.”

Everything was tilted off-kilter, but Kizami seized him by his bicep and drug him through the living room into his bedroom, shoving him on the bed before disappearing into his closet. Wiping blood from his split lip, Morishige didn’t even have time to take in more than the white sheets beneath him before the other man returned, a coiled length of rope in one hand and a box in the other.

“Center of the bed,” he said, voice cold like steel, and he slapped Morishige on the flank like a disobedient animal when he didn’t hasten to obey. “Now.”

Pushing him so that his upper body was resting against the bed and his ass was up in the air, Kizami grabbed his arms and pulled them behind his back, wrapping the rope deftly around his wrists and forearms until he couldn’t move them, the position straining his shoulders and putting his neck at a weird angle. His dick was already hard, the head pressing against his stomach.

“I’ve barely touched you,” he said, pleasure clear in his voice for all that the words were an insult. “You’re that fucked up, huh? Not even a little scared?” He punctuates the words with a ringing slap to his ass, and the pain makes him jerk, fingers flexing as he moans.

The length of rope he’d been carrying was apparently cut into pieces, because he finds his ankles bound as well, each one tied individually with the rope being brought up to tie off and join the bindings around his wrist. Already, he can’t move much from his kneeling position; this appears to be aesthetic more than anything, but it would also keep him from running. Now, he’s completely helpless, and the adrenaline makes his chest heave and his heart pound.

There’s the sound of motion behind him, and he guesses that Kizami is taking the lid off the box he brought from the closet. No idea what to expect, the cold touch of metal against his back makes him jerk, and the other man laughs derisively.

“You’ll be wanting to hold very, very still,” he said, voice a mockery of affection. “It’ll be bad if you mess me up now.”

It becomes immediately apparent that what he’s holding is a knife when the point drives into the skin of his shoulder, dragging in a light, sweeping motion down towards his ribs. It barely more than a prickle, but when Kizami lifts the blade away, it burns like a scratch. The mark would barely be visible, just a curve of red on his pale skin, but the promise of more makes his toes curl against the mattress.

“I knew you’d be able to follow directions eventually,” Kizami sighs, petting his sides as he settled behind him, knees resting casually between Morishige’s spread thighs. When the blade returns, teasing the flat against the vulnerable bumps of his spine, he takes his time, brushing up and down his back and tapping against the places where the bones are closer to the skin. When he reaches the nape of his neck, just below where the collars of his shirt usually sat, he cut into the skin properly this time, using the full length of the blade instead of just the tip.

It had to be a scalpel, because nothing else would allow for this kind of precision. If he hadn’t told Morishige that he was a writer, the man would assume that he was an artist; every movement was perfect, sweeping in broad arches or sketching deep, tight lines. It felt like the breath had been knocked out of him, every intake of air a loud, ragged gasp as the metal danced across his skin. The areas that had been kissed by the blade burned, felt wet and chilly in the cold air of the room, stinging in time with the beating of his heart.

“Gorgeous,” Kizami murmured, dragging his fingertips across the mess of his back, and Morishige moaned at the wet, sticky sensation that it created. Those fingertips press against his lips, and he parts them easily, sucking the iron taste from his skin and laving at the digits with his tongue. The suction makes the other man groan, the sound low and barely audible, and he presses at his tongue, playing with the muscle as he idly presses at the open wounds on his skin.

“You’re having no trouble staying still,” he observes, drawing his fingers from between his lips slowly, a smirk playing across his lips when Morishige tries to chase the digits, tongue lolling out in a wanton, pleading motion. “Should I make it more of a challenge?”

Clearly, this is a rhetorical question, so Morishige doesn’t try to answer, and instead licks the blood from where it smeared against the backs of his teeth and the roof of his mouth. The taste combined with the little starbursts of pain whenever Kizami presses his fingertips against a deep, bloody cut that follows the vulnerable lines of his ribs leaves him feeling like he’s floating, to the point where he doesn’t hear the click of a bottle lid or the slick sound that follows.

His attention is snapped out of the haze when the other man spreads his cheeks, pressing against the area right behind his balls as two slick fingers probe at his entrance. Without further fanfare, Kizami is pressing those fingers inside him, making Morishige groan from behind clenched teeth at the harsh violation. It burns deep inside him, making him squirm and thrash his head against the pillows, and his thighs tremble with the effort of holding himself up.

“Don’t fight it,” Kizami says, and the back of Morishige’s neck prickles, letting him know that the other is unabashedly enjoying his discomfort. “You’ll adjust. Hopefully fast, because if you squirm like this...my grip may slip.”

He twists his fingers, hard, and Morishige shouts, one of his legs trying to kick out, but the way he’s been bound prevents him from doing anything. The cold press of the blade is back, just resting against the soft skin of his side, and he stills with difficulty, heaving for breath, his eyes wide and slightly panicked.

“That’s it,” the other man breathes, starting to move his fingers in and out, and the ache of penetration and the painful stretch begins to fade. It starts to feel good, although he can tell that the other is purposefully avoiding his prostate. His dick, which softened briefly in his panic, is hard again, and when the tip of the knife bites into his stomach, he grinds back against the steady thrusts of Kizami’s fingers.

Morishige barely notices when the other slips a third finger inside, starting to finger him in earnest as he brings the knife to the small of his back. It feels like he’s using that teasing, delicate pressure that brings to mind the sensation of scratches, and it makes his whole body feel flushed with shame because he wants _more_ than that. When one of those fingers glances off his prostate, he actually whimpers, fingers convulsing with the effort of keeping still as precome drips from his erection.

“How slutty, Morishige,” Kizami simpers. “Do you want me to fuck you? Do you need my cock, too?”

A biting reply is on his tongue, but at that moment, the other man curls his fingers up into his prostate, hard, and he howls, squirming and rutting against the contact like an animal. The other still hasn’t touched his dick at all.

There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled down, the rustling of fabric, and when Kizami removes his fingers, it’s followed almost immediately by the blunt head of his dick pressing against the loosened muscle. Still holding the knife in one hand, he grasps Morishige’s hips, exhaling a sigh that sounds shuddery and pleased before thrusting inside.

It’s just shy of too much, and if Kizami hadn’t fucked into him with his fingers so thoroughly, he would probably be in more pain than he’d truly like. But the pain has left him oddly relaxed, almost catatonic, and instead he just moans into the pillow, damp with drool and sweat and tears, every muscle in his body pliant as the other begins to fuck him.

“Look at you, just taking it,” he pants, hips slapping against his ass as he drapes his body over Morishige’s back, the rough material of his shirt rubbing his rounds raw. “Do you like being used like this?”

It seems completely impossible to answer, but Kizami gets his fingers in his hair, yanking his head back at an angle that makes his neck hurt even worse. “Yes,” he whispers, mouth dry, lips cracked.

“Do you like knowing that you ruined my shirt, my sheets, getting your blood all over it?”

Kizami is truly pounding into him now, rattling his bones and making him grunt with effort at every thrust. “Yes,” he answers again, louder this time.

“You’d let me do anything to you right now, wouldn’t you? You’d let me turn you inside out if I wanted to.”

His hips are starting to go numb, the pleasure tingling and tightening in the base of his spine. He can’t see, can’t feel anything other than the ache in his neck, the burning, stinging pain in his back, and the feeling of Kizami’s dick filling him so fucking perfectly over and over again.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to come?”

“ _Yes_.”

Kizami groans, long and loud and low, reaching around to wrap his fingers around his erection, and it barely takes two strokes before Morishige is shrieking, the sound aching in the back of his throat in a way that lets him know he’s going to be feeling it tomorrow. His release falls to the sheets and wets the other man’s hand, and when his whole body jerks and tightens in response to his orgasm, Kizami sinks his teeth into the back of his neck and comes as well.

Morishige doesn’t even have his bearings before he distantly feels Kizami hurrying to untie the bindings, roughly turning him over to lay on his bloody back on the sheets. Groaning, Morishige tries to sit up, but an insistent hand keeps him pinned to the bed, and he doesn’t have the strength to fight him.

“I didn’t carve you up like that to not have you ruin my sheets,” Kizami says, and it makes Morishige feel accomplished to hear that the other is out of breath, and when he cracks his eyes open, the man’s composure seems to have fallen away, his hair in total disarray and his forehead shining with sweat. There’s blood smeared on his shirt, his forearms, his fingers, and there’s even some on his mouth and chin.

“You look like you lost a fight,” Morishige croaks.

The other man smirks, glancing at the clock on his bedside table. “I think I won, actually.”

“You definitely won.”

After what he deems to be a sufficient amount of time, Kizami lets him get up, and the sheets stick to his back in a way that hurts more than it feels good in his post-coital state. Stretching his neck, he looks around the room in confusion before realizing that his clothes are still in the living room. “Do you have your phone?”

Kizami is sitting back on his haunches, his dick still hanging out of his pants, damp with lube and his release, and Morishige can’t believe how much more attractive he looks when he’s so unkempt like this. With a slight furrow between his brow, he pulls his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans, but makes no move to hand it over.

“Could I convince you to take a picture of my back? I’d like to have it, to remember what it looks like fresh.”

An elegantly shaped eyebrow rises up, and for the first time, Kizami looks...surprised. “I could blackmail you with that, you know.”

Morishige shrugs. “It’s just my back. Besides, I’m broke, and not particularly attached to my job. It’s hard to blackmail someone who has nothing and who doesn’t care.”

Licking his lips, the other just pushes him down onto his stomach, arranging his limbs like he has no will of his own before moving to one side to get the best angle. There’s no flash, only the sound of an artificial shutter, and Kizami takes several before he is apparently satisfied.

“You should shower,” he says, standing up and tucking himself back into his jeans. “I have disinfectant under the sink. Use it.”

Getting rather unsteadily to his feet, Morishige has to put his hand on the wall to keep himself from falling over, but once he’s vertical, he gets a good look at the print he left on the bed. It looks like a rorschach test, or something equally abstract, but the dark red against the white sheets is certainly stunning. He wonders if Kizami keeps the stained sheets, and how many he has in his collection. A dark, selfish part of him hopes that his is the first.

“Now you want to take care of me?” he asks, voice too dry and cracked to be teasing, but hopefully it has the same affect.

Kizami is carefully pulling the sheets from the bed, shaking them lightly as if to encourage the blood to dry faster. He’s looking at the stains with a crushing fondness, like these marks are infinitely more dear to him than Morishige himself, and it makes something nasty and pleased curl in Morishige’s soul.

“We can’t play again if something happens to you,” the other points out, his gaze flicking from the blood on the sheets to the naked man huddled against his wall. “Wouldn’t want that, would you?”

And slowly, Morishige smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Basically everything that these two do, don't do it. Practice safe sex, have a safe word when playing with others, communicate your boundaries, etc. I do not condone this kind of sexual relationship.


End file.
